A Bit Not Good
by mjuhlar
Summary: John can't keep living day in and day out with out his best friend. What happens when a text message changes everything?
1. Chapter 1

The sun is out as I open my eyes. The first thought to cross my mind is, Its been 728 days since I buried my best friend.

The clock says that it is already mid-morning. I am glad to have finally fallen asleep. It seems that sleep is always out of reach for me. Sleep is usually found when my body can no longer function. My mind never seems to shut off. I am cursed to relive my nightmares whether I am awake or not.

This morning my mind keeps replaying the funeral. It is the day I believe that I broke. I became a shell. Strong and Loyal John H. Watson fell apart. People stood around the final resting place of the man that was everything to me, they weren't there for him. He was just a "freak" to most of these people. Some of them I blamed for his death. He was driven off that roof. These people broke him. I wasn't enough to keep him alive.

I believe it was the moment the box began to descend into the ground is the moment that shattered me. I kept thinking he would come around the corner at any moment. He would be there showing me how clever he really was. He would prove just how brilliant he was. That box slowly sinking into the ground ended me. It was over. He wasn't coming back, he was gone.

I remember hearing a noise, heartbreaking, and realized it came from me. The ground met my knees as I fell forward. Words escaped my mouth, I still can't remember what I yelled. I lashed out at everyone. Greg had to drag me away. The soldier with the nerves of steel had disintegrated in front of everyone. They buried that part of me when they buried my best friend.

Time wasn't making things easier. If anything, it was getting worse for me. I couldn't think of many reasons for existing anymore. What was the point?  
_

Sitting here, looking at his empty chair is one of the only connections I have left. I spend hours watching the seat, picturing his long lean frame curled into the chair. It always amazed me that he could take that body full of feline grace and curl it up into the strangest positions. I spend hours upon hours recalling every way he ever placed himself in that chair. Sometimes I can almost see him there, his feet pulled up on the seat, his elbows on his knees, hands in a prayer pose under his chin. Nausea takes over and I need to get out of the flat. The never ending cycle of needing to be there to feel him still and the need to get far away before I am crushed.

I seem to always end up in the same spot when I flee the suffocating sadness that is my flat. Not just my flat to be truthful, my whole life is suffocating. Nothing makes sense anymore. The streets are always the same, the trip never seems to change. St. Bart's is there in front of me. I look up to the roof line. That damn roof line that changed my life forever.

I replay the phone call. He never called, only text. He tried to tell me he was fake, a trick he did. Never would I believe it. He was the most amazing man I ever knew. I told him this, too late, as I stood at his grave months later. I still blame myself, I wasn't enough to keep him with me. He was what kept me alive and I lived for him. I was his balance. I kept him grounded. I did a piss poor job at the end. St. Bart's stood there and mocked me once again. I turned and started the trip home. 

It took me a while to realize that I was in love. I always had pushed any thought like that back into the depths of my mind. Everyone else knew it, even assumed that it was a given. I could say we weren't a couple a million times but they all knew the truth. I couldn't even keep a girlfriend. He mattered more. I had fooled myself over and over again that it was just what best mates did. Yeah, ok, best mates drop everything at any given moment for each other. Best mates always looked at a text they got while snogging a woman in her bed. Best mates would always leave said woman sitting there wondering what just happened as I closed the door.

Sherlock never said a word when people would assume we were lovers. He just kept on with the work. I was the one to try to make people see that I was not gay. I am not gay, but I am in love with Sherlock Holmes. Saying his name hurts beyond anything I could imagine.

I can't breathe without him. He was the very air I took in. He was the sun that lit the sky. He was the rain that fell against my skin. He was my everything.

Finding out that you love someone can be an amazing thing. It can make everything seem to make sense. It is like slowly crawling in the darkness and trying to make your way through, shuffling through the mud and filth and suddenly there is a light, a brightness to show you the right path, a glow to fill you with hope and joy. Finding out that I was in love with a dead man shook me to my core. My hell had opened up and was now my entire existence. Blackness took over my world. There would be no brightness to pull me out of my misery, no angel to guide me to my hope and joy. I was left empty. I would never be able to see his smile again, the one he shared with only myself. Never would I hear his voice that was like dark chocolate, sweet and sensuous. His laughter, soft and genuine, would haunt me. The ever changing color of his eyes, never seeming to pick a color, swirling in and out of blue and green, were extinct.

He brought me back from a partial life, a life barely lived. I lived more in the time with him than all the years before. That was over, I was over. There was no reason to keep going. None.

The darkness in my room is rather calming. I feel a sense of calm that I haven't had in 2 years. Funny how this hits now that I have made this choice. It isn't the first time I have thought about it. Years ago there was a time when I flirted with it, not really making a choice, then I met Sherlock. He filled that void that was empty in my soul. I was finally alive again. Now there is nothing left.

_

Sitting in my room, cell phone in hand, I debate saying goodbye to a few people. Greg has been here for me since the beginning. He has tried to keep me sane. Mrs. Hudson has tried to keep me fed and healthy. She has tried to be motherly. It makes it worse. I am hoping they won't take this personal. This is my choice, I just have had enough of the emptiness, the sadness, the loss. Everything that made life worth living fell when Sherlock jumped.

I send a text to Greg. He won't have too much time to respond.

_Thanks for everything- _JW

There is no other note to leave. Everyone will know why I decided to do this.

My gun is clean and well maintained. It can handle this job. Being a doctor I know just what to do. I will succeed in the task. The gun feels perfect in my hand, too long has passed since it had a purpose. Defending Sherlock has ended years ago. Finally a task it was able to do.

I take some deep breaths, knowing that soon the pain would end. The gun warms in my hands.

BEEP

The light on my cell phone catches my eyes. I figure its Greg. He is probably concerned. Looking over at the phone, its a number I don't know. It feels rather odd, to put the gun aside and open the message. Who pauses in the middle of a suicide?

I read across the screen,

_A bit not good John_

I can't breathe all of a sudden, the room starts to get very hot. Only one person has ever said these words to me. I lean over the bed and throw up.


	2. Confusion

I wrote this kind of quick. I hope it's ok.  
Review if possible. Thanks. More to come. I do not own any of these characters. If I did, Mr. Freeman would be mine. But he is not.

"John? John, where the hell are you?" I can hear someone yelling. I realize that I am laying across my bed, cell in hand, sweating terribly. I must have blacked out. I look back at my cell and see the message there.

A bit not good John.

What the hell had happened? Am I finally crazy? Have I finally totally lost it?

"John? Answer me John, Where the hell are you?" I hear Greg yelling, I try to respond but no words come from my mouth. I feel stuck.

Greg climbs the stairs to my room. I can hear the panic in those steps, he is afraid at what he is going to walk into.

"John? What the fuck, John? What kind of message is that to send me?" He is screaming at me, I can only stare at him. He sees my gun on the bed, he walks over and takes it. There is alarm and confusion on his face.

"What did you do John? Did you take anything? Answer me." Greg begins pacing around the room, looking for anything I may have swallowed or taken. He sees the vomit on the floor and looks at me. He is convinced I have taken drugs or poison.

"No, I didn't." I finally breathe out." I didn't do it. I was stopped." Greg's eyes are burning into mine. He is at war with himself as to whether to trust my answer or not. He knows I am at the edge, have been. I can't blame him. I have a gun and planned on using it.

"I didn't take anything. I was going to use the gun." I admit to him.

Greg's face is turning pale and slightly green. He just takes in the scene. He is relieved that I am ok, but he knows it could and would have been a different scene had something not changed it.

"What do you mean you were stopped? What stopped you? Not that I am not thanking God right now that you did."

I just hand him my phone. I can't talk about it. I can't process what this means at all. Greg sees the screen and looks back at me. He is not grasping what it means, he doesn't understand. How am I going to explain?

"It's him Greg. It is somehow him.

" Greg drops his eyes to the floor. I know what is coming next, I see it in his eyes. The pity I see makes me angry. I know it's him. I feel it in my soul.

"John," he sighs," you know it isn't him. You know he is gone."

A loud ringing interrupts his speech about my sanity.

I look down at the phone and see Mycroft's number across the screen.

"What Mycroft? Now isn't a good time."

"Actually John, now is the best time. I should have intervened a long time ago. I knew you were not taking it well. I knew it was troubling."

"What the fuck Mycroft? Are you watching me? Did you send the message?"

"I sent nothing John. I merely observed you, and it concerned me. I did what was necessary to change the out come."

"What the fuck does that mean?" I knew I was falling apart. Did he have the message sent to stop me? How did he know what to send? How did he know those words would stop me?

"I have stood by and watched you fall apart little by little John. I should have put a stop to it long ago. I didn't realize it would effect you so deeply. I should have known better. I pride myself on knowing things and being right, but in this, I have failed."

I am a little lost as to what he is saying to me.

"You should have put a stop to it? What the hell does that even mean? You can't put a stop to my pain and loss? You can't change it. He jumped Mycroft, he left me. He left me alone here. How could you possibly change this? You just fucked my plan to change it. I was fixing it. I was ending it."

I could see Greg shifting uncomfortably on his feet. He fears Mycroft. Most people do. I am one of the few that he doesn't intimidate. I am also pretty sure my yelling about my interruption during a suicide attempt may be a little much for him to hear.

"Who did you have send it? I want to know who sent that to me. Who the fuck sent it Mycroft?" I was shaking. I could feel my stomach turning.

"Put the gun away John. Instead of destroying your brain, why don't you use it. You are out of practice and I know my brother taught you well." With those words he ended the call.

It took me over forty minutes to get Greg to leave the flat. I can't blame him for not wanting to leave a suicidal friend alone. He didn't even argue about the text message I received. He would let me think whatever kept me from putting a bullet in my mouth. I also knew he was going to look into the text himself. I saw him write down the number before I spoke to Mycroft. He made his own call, probably to Sally. He was going to see who sent it. He took my gun, of course. He wasn't taking any chances.

I drag myself downstairs to make a cuppa and try to wrap my brain around what was going on. I needed to know if Sherlock had sent that message, and if he did, it wasn't from the great beyond. What the hell was going on?

I sit down and sip my tea, phone in hand. I look over to his chair. I decide to return a message. It was how we caught the attention of our cabbie at the very beginning. The case that began it all and the case where I knew life would never be the same. He had changed my life in less than a full day and I had killed to save him without a second thought.

_It is very rude to interrupt someone in the middle of a task. Mycroft's lackeys usually have better manners than that. -JW_

I wait. I sip my tea and pray that he is out there. I pray the message will be answered.

BEEP

_Blowing ones head off seems to be_ _a_ _task in need of interruption._

_Who is this?-JW_

I sat waiting. I need an answer. I was pissed at Mycroft. It was amazing that I had hit bottom, there was nothing left, things couldn't get worse. That was a joke. That damn message changed everything. Someone handed me a damn shovel, I could dig deeper and fall even lower, or I could slowly fill in this hole and rise up. I didn't know which to choose. If there was even a slight chance that Sherlock was out there, somewhere, then I couldn't give in, not yet.

Too much time had past, there was no return text. I have to get out of this God forsaken flat. I couldn't look at the fucking chair again today. The panic attack was coming. I need air. I grab my coat and take off down the stairs.

The air whips around me. The view from St. Bart's roof wasn't amazing, but then again I wasn't here to see the sites. I need to be up on this roof. Sometimes I had to look and stand right where he stood. I need to see exactly what he saw before he jumped.

Tonight I keep re playing the fall over and over. Could he have lived through that? I saw him, he was gone. They wouldn't let me stay with him, they dragged me away. What did I miss? Am I being crazy? No one can survive that fall. Not even the Great Sherlock Holmes.

I stand here and wonder if he knew I loved him. I hadn't even admitted it to myself at that time. I can admit it now. Hell I can shout it to the world. I never told him. Sherlock always knew everything. He probably knew I had fallen for him. He would never return those feelings. Sherlock was married to his work.

I laugh thinking about the conversation about having a girlfriend, he told me it wasn't his area. The whole conversation confused me about his sexuality. Irene made me think maybe he would be with her, but no. There was something there for sure, but not sexual. He was called "The Virgin". I think Sherlock may have been above all of it. Hell he never understood my need for companionship.

Here I am, standing on the roof where the only person I have ever loved, jumped. I am wondering about his love life. I think I may be losing it. I would give anything to have him again. I would make sure he knew I loved him. I wouldn't shy away or be afraid. I send a silent prayer to God to give me one more miracle. Please.

BEEP

I hear my phone. I am almost scared to look at it.

BEEP

It goes off again with another message. I dig into my pocket, open the phone.

_Baker Street._ Come at _once if convenient._

I start to shake. I recognize these words.

_If Inconvenient come anyway._

These exact words were the first text messages he ever sent me. I turn to run to the stairs, needing to get home.

BEEP

_Could Be Dangerous._

I know at this exact moment that Sherlock Holmes is alive.


	3. Homecoming

The cab ride back seems to take forever. My whole body is quivering. Sweat is beginning to rise from my skin. Anticipation is almost too much. I need to be home. I need to see for myself.

I try to gather my thoughts together. What the hell is going on? Why is this even happening, and where the hell has he been? Leaving me, faking a suicide? What did it mean? I know Sherlock, I know him better than anyone could ever know him. He looked to me to make sure he behaved correctly, I kept him safe. No one cared if Sherlock ate or slept, just me. I just can not wrap my brain around him wanting to be away from me.

The ringer on my phone goes off, scaring the hell out of me. Mycroft.

"What Mycroft."

"I know where you are headed, John. Let me give you some advice before you storm in and start yelling for explanations. John..."

I cut him off his rant, " Mycroft, you just shut the hell up. I don't want to hear you say a word. God only knows what has happened to him. I can't imagine where he has been or why. You just stop right there and shut your mouth. This has your name all over it. I wanted to die being without him. I can not imagine what has happened to Sherlock with no one to even be there for him. I don't want to even hear your voice or see you. Stay away from the Flat."

"I was going to say be gentle, he is not well. I should have known you would never play a victim. Once again I am wrong. John, you always surprise me." With that Mycroft ends the call.

The cab pulls on to Baker Street. My nerves were making me feel like my skin was on fire. Paying the fee and climbing out of the cab seems to take place in slow motion. I look up to the windows of the flat and see a dull light flickering. The fireplace must be lit, there was no other light visible from the street. I climb the stairs and stop outside the door. Slowly I open the door, knowing everything is about to change.

There isn't much light, just a soft glow from the flickering flames. My eyes immediately travel to the chair I have stared at for two years. No longer is that chair empty, curled up in that chair is the best site I have ever seen. My breath catches in my throat, his face rises up and his eyes meet mine. I can see the glow of tears on his cheeks.

"John."

I shudder at his voice, a voice I thought I would never ever hear again. I waste no time and rush into the room and drop to my knees in front of him. My arms wrap around him, and pull him into me. He is so much smaller than he was. I try to imagine how it is possible that that lean frame could be smaller, but it is. He smells of cigarettes and tea, and I couldn't be happier.

"Sherlock. My Sherlock." is all that can escape my lips. Tears pour from my eyes and mix with his. We hold on for dear life. Both of us seem afraid that we may lose each other again at any moment.

I run my fingers into his hair. It is longer than it should be, and I know he must hate it. I pull back slightly and place my forehead against his. His eyes look into mine and I see the color shift before my eyes and I can't help but cry a little more. Those eyes were lost forever and now here they are, filled with life.

We stay there, forehead to forehead as minutes pass. Tears begin to slow and we both know words will have to be exchanged and stories will have to be told, but neither of us want to break this moment yet.

I slowly place my lips softly on to his. I need to kiss him, I need to breathe his air, I need to be closer. The kiss is soft and chaste, just a need for connection. Sherlock kisses back. His lips capture mine and his hands grasp onto my neck and drag my mouth closer to his. I can taste Sherlock down to my soul. I know that sounds cliche, but it is the truth. Nothing could ever compare to his mouth on mine and nothing ever would.

We slowly separate, and our eyes meet again. His mouth gives his small smile that he saves for only me. I can feel the tears coming again. I need to tell him that I was broken, that I was nothing with out him, but it isn't the moment for that. I just have to look at Sherlock to see he has been broken and hurting. He looks like he has been through hell. I can only hope to be the Heaven he came back to.

I place my hands on his cheek bones, which are much too sharp, and I quickly kiss his lips. "Thank you God." I say as I look up to the ceiling, "Thank you so much." I look back at Sherlock, "I love you."

I say this and stand up, I decide to head to the kitchen. "I'm going to make a cuppa, would you want one?"

"Please." Sherlock answers me. His eyes never leaving my body as I moved to start the kettle. I hear a whispered voice from behind me, "I love you too, always have."

Sherlock has moved to the sofa while I made the tea. There is a need in both of us to be close to one another. I place the tea on the table, moving slowly to the couch. I sink into the sofa. It takes less than thirty seconds for Sherlock to lean down and place his head in my lap. He is turned with his back to the room and his face looking up into mine. He looks exhausted. I can see the tears begin to fill in his eyes.

"Just relax Sherlock, you're home. You can relax", I run my hands over his back. He draws his knees up and curls himself into a little ball, almost disappearing into me.

"Just close your eyes. I am not going anywhere." Within minutes Sherlock is asleep. His head still on my lap and his body curled into the tiniest ball imaginable. It amazes me that such a long body can curl so tiny. I grab the blanket off the back of the couch and cover us up. I place the blanket completely around us, leaving his face open against my belly.

Soon I feel my lids begin to drop. The stress has finally zapped everything I had and the need for sleep is immense. I lay my head back and let myself drift off.

Heavy footsteps wake me up. Someone is coming up to flat stairs. Sherlock is still curled around me, completely out. It must have been forever since he had any real sleep. I pull up and fix the blanket around him.

The door flings open, Greg rushes in. He looks like he is surprised to see me sitting on the couch.

"That phone the text came from is untraceable John. It has to be Mycroft. He must have sent the message. I needed to be straight with you. I don't need him confusing you more."

I just sit and stare at him. He is looking at my face waiting for me to get defensive and argue with him. I don't say a word. I just look at him. Slowly I pull the blanket off of Sherlock's head and let Greg take in the scene in front of him.

"Holy Fucking Shit! How? What? How the hell?"

"So Dramatic Lestrade, do keep it down" Sherlock answers from my lap.

His eyes twinkle as he looks at me. The giggles start and we can't seem to control it. The laughter is rich and sounds wonderful to my ears. We know it is just a release of stress but we don't care. It is a celebration of being alive.

Greg just gapes at us. The confusion is written all over his face.

I pull my self together, suddenly feeling very protective, "You'll have to wait for the story Greg. He isn't in any shape for an interrogation right now. He was cleared over a year ago. Leave it alone."

"Sherlock, what the fuck? Did you know he almost blew his head off? For two fucking years I watched him slowly fall apart. Where the fuck were you?"

I felt the anger rise in me and all my muscles clenched. I understood what Greg was saying, but now was not the time. There would be a time very soon when the shit would hit the fan, for both of us, but it wasn't going to be right now.

Sherlock's hand grasped my thigh, he was giving me the sign to hold my tongue. His eyes that were so relaxed minutes ago were filled with pan.

"Lestrade, you'll have your answers. I can't give you all the answers right now. Call Mycroft if you want them now. Oh and turn the kettle on before you go, our tea is far too cold now."

Greg stood still, frozen in place. He turned toward the kitchen and filled the kettle.

"I will call you tomorrow. I... I am very happy you are here. Very happy." With that Greg turned and left.

"John, I actually don't think I am up for tea. Can we go to bed?" I hear him whisper. He sits up next to me, still touching. He won't let go, I don't want him to.

"Come on, let's go up. We can both fit in my bed. Let's get some sleep before everything gets crazy."

We climb the stairs and head for the bed. Sherlock strips to his pants and tee shirt, I throw a tee shirt on and pajama bottoms. I pull the covers back and slide in. Sherlock wastes no time and climbs into the bed. He crawls across the bed and into me. His head rests under my chin across my chest. His hand grasps mine. Sherlock's breath is warm as it passes through my shirt. I kiss the top of his head. He is asleep almost instantly.

I have a chance to look at him in the moon light. He is very thin, almost skeletal. His arm is scarred. It is a new scar, it had needed to be stitched and wasn't. I try to see his legs but they are wrapped in the blanket. I have a feeling he is going to be damaged.

"Where the hell have you been, love? What war have you been fighting without me?" I whisper to sleeping detective enveloped around me. I pull the covers up around both of us and let sleep take me.

Tomorrow is soon enough to figure it all out.


	4. Transport

Shorter chapter than usual. I didn't want to rush into Sherlock's story. I wanted them to have a little time for themselves. I hope it's ok. Things get a bit sexual. Not very graphic, but it is there.

Heat radiates all around me. The warmth, like the sun shining down on me, feels like heaven. The room is still dark. It is Sherlock's body that is warming me. We had shifted during sleep and I am now spooning his starved body. It should feel odd, my short body holding tight to his tall length, but it doesn't. It feels like home.

I reach my hands out and run them through his curls. Tears fill my eyes. I am filled with emotions and feeling that are beginning to boil over. He can not leave me again. I can not lose this, him.

Sherlock shifts and rolls over. He faces me. Slender fingers run across my tear soaked cheeks.

"You're awake Sherlock."

"Your ability to state the obvious always amazes me John." Sherlock playfully responds, with laughter behind his words. I am relieved to hear the Sherlock I remember behind those words.

He reaches over, pulls me to him. Lips find each other, this kiss different then any before. Passion and need fuel our mouths. His tongue finds mine and I can hear him purr. I deepen the kiss. My hands reaching into his hair. His hands find my hips and presses mine into him. Hip to hip and mouth to mouth we move. Pulling his hair back I expose his neck. Lips and teeth trace down his jaw, I work down to his beautiful neck.

I have dreamt of Sherlock's mouth and skin, his hands, but no thought or fantasy could have prepared me for him. My mouth burns with need and his skin quenches me. My teeth gently nip his throat. Sherlock's hips rock into mine, instinct taking over. I move my hands to his hip and pull him closer, rocking myself into him, matching his movements.

"Fuck."

Hearing Sherlock say such a dirty word, out of that sensual mouth, sends me over the edge. I climax rocking into him. He follows moments after.

"Well that was a long time coming." Sherlock groans out.

"Actually, that was pretty quick not to mention messy. I mean really Sherlock, we still are dressed. We are like teenagers."

"Next time we'll go slower, make up for lost time."

I pull Sherlock closer, placing my hands on his back and I see him flinch. He tries to catch it, and play it off but I see it. I know it's time to see the damage that has happened to my detective.

"Roll over Sherlock, don't argue. Just do it."

Sherlock rolls onto his stomach," John, can we just not do this now. Really, we are having a moment here. Can't this wait?"

"Just let me make sure you're not hurt. For me Sherlock, just do it for me."

"It's just transport John."

"Yeah well it's my transport now and I am planning on keeping it running. Now take your tee shirt off and lay down and be quiet."

His tee comes off and he lays back down. I turn over and turn on the lamp and turn back to him.

It takes all that I have not to gasp. Sherlock's back is covered in lash marks. There are no open wounds anymore, they are all in varying stages of healing. There is no skin on his back that is not affected. The scars and injuries continue under his pants and are all over his thighs. He had been stripped when this happened, and it happened more than once. I now understand why he was wearing a tee shirt. He needed the softness against his skin.

I take a deep breath, I know I need to be calm and not freak out. " Well, no open wounds, that is good. You are healing. Sherlock, how long ago?"

"Three weeks. It's been three weeks since I got out of there."

"I want you to go shower Sherlock. There are tee shirts in my top draw and I'll go down and get you a pair of your pants and trousers from your room. They will be loose on you but mine won't fit at all. I am going to go make tea and some food. You need to eat, love. Not a lot, but something. After that I'll cut your hair. It must be making you crazy, all those curls. We will sort it out."

"John, Thank You."

"Come on, lets get moving. I know in a few hours Greg and your brother will be both over here. We are going to have to tell Mrs. Hudson. She is going to freak out. I know that stories need to be shared and we have a lot to figure out, so lets take advantage of the few hours before the chaos."

I leave Sherlock laying on the bed and head down stairs. A quick trip to the bathroom to clean up and a trip into Sherlock's room.

Time to let reality in soon. I know I am going to hear things that will crush me, but this time he will be next to me. We will survive this. We have to.

I turn and head to make tea and toast to feed my miracle.


	5. The Reason

The morning flies by. Sherlock sits on the sofa, clean and dressed. I know he is happy to have his hair more in control. Heaven help us if anything is out of his control.

While cutting his hair we had discussed how to tell Mrs. Hudson that he had returned from the dead. Thankfully, she was visiting out of town for the next few days. I think we could come up with a plan by then.

The rain is falling against the window and the fire is going. It is a scene I had lived many times years ago. It was something I have missed greatly and thought would never happen again.

Sherlock's mobile goes off. He grabs it and sighs. "Mycroft is on his way." As he speaks, mine goes off too. "Greg is on his way too"

I know that Greg is going to be very uncomfortable with Mycroft here. I know that being around the eldest Holmes is quite distressing for the Detective Inspector. Mycroft has a way of rubbing people the wrong way, not too mention he is a Holmes, and as we joke, runs Britain.

I sit looking at Sherlock as he sits in his prayer pose, legs curled under him. He is clean now and dressed in his tailored pants and my blue tee shirt. The pants hang off of him. I had gotten him to eat a piece of toast. It wasn't much, but he couldn't handle much more than that. I don't want him to be sick.

I try to mentally prepare myself for the arrival of the two men. I need to know what has happened, I need to know where and why. I know that emotions are going to be running on high.

I hear the door open downstairs and footsteps headed up. My eyes lock with Sherlock's. We both take a deep breath. I whisper to him, "I love you." I hear softly back,"You too."

The umbrella comes through the door before it's owner. I can't count how many times I have wanted to shove that umbrella up his arse. Mycroft Holmes is as unique as his brother. I have often wonder what their house must have been like. It makes me shudder.

Mycroft looks around the room. He takes in the mood. I know he can see things I never could. He may not be as good as Sherlock in every deduction but he puts everyone else to shame.

"Have a seat Mycroft. Tea?," I ask "Please John. You look well, almost glowing." I hear the dig there. He is making it clear he knows that Sherlock and I will be more than friends now that he has returned. Though in my opinion, almost everyone that finds out will assume that.

"Mycroft, give it a rest today, please" Sherlock asks. There is none of the malice that he usually has for his brother. I know he is tired and his story and explanation is weighing on him.

Greg walks into the room next. He looks over at Mycroft and I see him swallow. I see something in his eyes that I can't read. It isn't fear and that surprises me. I look at Sherlock. He notices too and a small smile plays on his lips.

"Take the other chair Greg, I am making tea."

I can hear some soft talking as I make the tea. Greg asking Sherlock how he is. It makes me happy that there are other people that do care about my best friend. He is not as alone as he thinks he is.

I place a cup next to Greg and Mycroft and then go back for ours. I place it next to Sherlock on the side table. Our eyes lock as I move around him and sit down. We both know the next few hours are going to test them both. Sherlock takes a deep breath and begins.

"Moriarty was on the roof."

"What?"

"He was on the roof, he blew his head off on the roof."

"There was no body. No, He got away, haven't you been looking for him Greg?" I gasped.

"We have never found him." Greg hisses out, his anger is clear. Greg looks at Mycroft. "You cleaned up a body on that roof? We have been searching for Moriarty for two years, Jesus Christ."

"If he was dead then why the fuck did you jump? How did you live?"

"I had no choice. He had snipers with orders to shoot John, Mrs. Hudson, and you if I didn't jump. Those orders could not be canceled. They had the shot as I stood there."

My stomach turns. He had sat on that roof and had to chose to die or to live and let us die. He didn't die though, and I saw him jump. "How Sherlock? I saw you."

"Molly."

That is all he says. His eyes are filled with unshed tears. It dawns on me at that moment that I had hardly spoken to Molly since Sherlock fell. She would never even look at me. I understand now. She knew he was alive and I was dying without him. She had to live with knowing this great secret and she had to see me fall apart. I feel a sudden love for that young woman in that morgue. She had been there for Sherlock when I couldn't be.

"Why did you lie to me? Why did you tell me everything on that roof. You made me watch you jump. I watched my whole fucking life jump off that roof. I wasn't important enough to let into the loop?" I shake trying to control my anger and trying to understand. "I am trying here to be understanding. I just don't get it?"

Pain is etched onto Sherlock's face. I can see that this is incredibly difficult for him. He is very quiet as he answers, almost barely a whisper. "It was decided that you had to think I was dead. You had to mourn me. It had to be real."

"Let me guess Mycroft, that was your input. Fuck John, who cares. You knew I was lost, you knew I was sick." I scream at him.

Mycroft just sits there and looks at me, face blank. It is all I can do not to strike him.

"I tried to tell you John. I did. I said it was just a trick. I tried." Sherlock speaks, trying to calm me down.

"You were on a roof and getting ready to jump. I wasn't in the mind frame to figure out a riddle."

I get up and walk to the kitchen. I fill the kettle and make another cup of tea. Not one word is spoken. The fire crackles in the room.

After sitting back down, I turn and look at my detective, "Why two years? You look like a war veteran. I know the look. Where have you been?"

"Moriarty had an extensive web John. I had to neutralize it. You would not be safe until I cleaned up the mess he had created. I couldn't come home until no one was left to follow the orders. As far as where, too may places. Some I can't remember. Some I never want to."

I think of his back, his more recent injuries. This I am sure is on his list of memories he doesn't want to relive, at least not yet. I want to push him. I want to hear everything, but I don't want to overwhelm him. Though I need to know the story.

His eyes are lost in the memories. I have to tell myself that anger isn't going to help him. Here I am, back to the loyal and trustworthy John Watson that Sherlock needs. My Sherlock, the self diagnosed sociopath. How far from the truth that is. The mask he wears to protect himself is not worn all the time. I get to see the man under it, I know what an amazing man he is.

I take his hand and link it in mine. He looks over at me, and we share a look that says that time will come, and we will figure it out. I will hear it all. Just not today.

Greg stands and starts to say good bye. I can see he has a million questions and he wants the answers. He is going to wait. Him standing has all four of us standing and Sherlock and I walk his brother and Greg to the door.

"Well Lestrade, lets leave them to each other. I am surprised they managed to keep their hands off each other this long." Mycroft sneers.

The next thing I know I have hit him right on the chin and knock his ass to the floor and Sherlock smiles and Greg looks stunned.


	6. Beauty

"Holy shit John, you knocked him out.", Greg seems amazed.

"He asked for it. I wanted to do that for years." I answer back, shaking my fist a bit, it was probably going to bruise.

Laughter is bubbling up in the room. Sherlock is first to let loose. Once he starts, Greg and I can only laugh too. The laughter is loud and uncontrollable. Totally inappropriate for a doctor to do, as the man he hit is laying unconscious, and I don't give a damn.

We begin to calm down as Mycroft starts to come to. I almost start laughing again, looking at the confused eyes and messy hair of the gentleman who is always in total control.

Greg helps him up and steers him back toward the door. "You kind of asked for that Mycroft. Lets go."

"That has to be the second greatest thing I have ever seen in my life," Sherlock snorts. I have never heard a snort from that man ever. I smile at him. "What's the best thing then?"

"You walking through the door yesterday," he breathes. With that he turns, asking, "Tea?"

The rest of our day passes quickly. We sit and watch tv, Sherlock yelling at the shows and solving any mystery in the first five minutes. It use to bother me when he would ruin my shows, now I could care less. He is amazing. As we sit, I observe Sherlock. I smirk at the thought of observing him. He always tells me to not just see, not just look, I need to observe.

The fire flickers across him. Physically Sherlock is gorgeous. He can make both men and women stop and take a second look. His skin is like the perfect opal, pale and luminescent. It looks like it has never seen the sun. The few scars visible to most people just add to the sexiness that is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. His eyes are crystal balls, swirling with magic. They caste a spell on me every time he looks into mine. You could cut yourself on his cheekbones. They are as sharp as his tongue can be. Tall and lanky, yet his seems to move with feline grace that would make any big cat jealous. He oozes cockiness.

Looking at Sherlock, he draws people in with the outside package. It isn't until his mouth opens that people see what is hidden in all that beauty. His intelligence is unmeasurable. He is brilliant and amazing. He can see a wrinkle and a spot on a suit jacket and know who someone is dating and how much they ate for breakfast. That same mind can destroy a person.

He seems to not know social Protocol. He always looked to me. "A bit not good?" was always rolling off his tongue, asking me if what he said was bad. He will cut a person to their core and not bat an eye. He calls himself a sociopath. He isn't. He has proven this time and time again. He just selects who matters, and there isn't many of us. His mind never stops. He is constantly bombarded by facts and lists and ideas. He says he pities me and my normal intelligence, but I have a feeling he wishes he could shut it off sometimes. He was a drug addict. He did it to stop the thoughts, to just have peace. I sometimes can't imagine what he must feel like.

I notice he seems a bit antsy. He can't sit still. I remember the first thing I noticed about Sherlock yesterday, besides his thinness, he smelled of cigarettes.

"Sherlock, go ahead and get them. I won't complain. After all this shit, if all you are doing is smoking, I am thinking it is a miracle."

"I would never touch drugs again John. I wouldn't risk losing this. I have developed a bit of a smoking habit again though," he smirks.

I watch him at the window, in the moonlight as he smokes. I have never seen anything more seductive in my life. His lips wrap around the tip, as he sucks in. The release of smoke from his lungs, his lips pursed. His tongue touches the tip of his top lip as he brings the cigarette back to his mouth.

How and the hell can Sherlock smoking be this much of a turn on? My skin is on fire and my heart is beating like a drum. It feels like he should be able to hear it. I just sit and watch the show. The slow and stirring dance of the smoke, wrapping around Sherlock's face, enchants me.

I need to touch him, need to taste him. I need to be wrapped around everything that is Sherlock Holmes. He tosses the butt of the cigarette out the window.

Sherlock turns and looks straight at me. "What are you waiting for John?"

I stand up and dash to him.


	7. Tastes like Heaven

This is sexual. It isn't graphic, but it is sexual. I did not use graphic dirty words to describe body parts or acts, but it is sexual. If two men together is not your thing, skip to the bottom. The last little bit is important. i hope you will read the whole chapter.

Please leave a reveiw. I can only get better from knowing how you loke this.

Enjoy.

We met half way. A collision of body to body, mouth to mouth. My lips claim his in an explosion of need. One of my hands buries into Sherlock's hair, pulling him into me. His height is usually something I delight in, but right now it is hindering my ability to touch every square inch of him.

"Bedroom John. Yours, beds bigger.", Sherlock practically growls.

I grab his hand and storm up the stairs. As soon as we cross the thresh hold, Sherlock is stripping my shirt from my chest, pulling it over my head. He shoves me back against the wall. His long fingers grab for my buttons on my jeans.

"I thought we said slow this time?" I breathe out, trembling.

"I remember what I said, though at this exact minute I am thinking I am not going to be able to go slow John. I need you, in my mouth, now,"

"Fuck."

"Eventually" Sherlock promised.

His hands quickly lowering my jeans and pants. Sherlock runs his fingers down my skin as he slowly bends to his knees. Hands wrap around my hips, I feel his mouth envelope over me.

"Bloody Hell"

Feeling Sherlock's hot, wet mouth sliding over me is Heaven. I have found Nirvana and I plan on staying here forever. How and the hell did he learn how to do that? My hips move on their own. I try not to move but nature is taking over my brain. I look down and see those perfect lips wrapped completely around me.

"You have... you have to stop..." I breathe out. Part of my brain begging for him to never stop and the other part fighting to make this last.

Sherlock's eyes look up at me and he pulls his mouth away." We have plenty of time John, let go. Let me hear you."

Liquid heat covers me again. Sherlock's eyes watching me, his pupils blown wide. He is as into this as I am. The heat and pressure of his mouth sends lightning through me. I close my eyes and just let the feeling take over. Sounds escape my mouth, almost animal in nature.

"Sherlock...sher...lock. Please don't stop."

My whole body explodes. I can no longer hold my self up, I start to slide to the floor. My mind is fuzzy as Sherlock takes the clothes from around my feet and tosses them. His hands find my face and rest on my cheeks. He pulls my mouth to his, I can taste myself on his tongue.

"Now that was interesting. Dear doctor I do believe I blew your mind, among other things" Sherlock giggles out. Seeing him so relaxed is amazing. He is practically glowing with pride.

I suddenly want to make him shut that brain off, let nothing but feelings flood it. I get to my feet and pull him up. Slowly I back Sherlock up to the bed. He looks nervous.

"I'm getting ready to strip you down and taste every inch of you. I plan to make your magnificent brain go into shock. I really want to hear you lose control.", I murmer into his ear.

I feel the shiver he makes and hear the catch in his breath. I reach for the bottom of the tee shirt he is wearing. Slowly I lift it over his head.

"Lay Down."

Sherlock climbs up and places himself in the middle of my bed. He looks beautiful laying there, skin flushed, and lips swollen from pleasuring me. I climb on the bed and nudge his legs apart. I move between his legs and lean down and take his lips. I deepen the kiss, exploring his mouth. He tastes like a feast and I feel like I have been starving. I move to his jaw bone, tracing the angle with my tongue. Sherlock purrs under me. Sherlock's neck is soft and smooth beneath my mouth. He smells like soap and cigarettes and I can't get enough.

My mouth travels from his neck to his shoulders, dragging lips and tongue along the way, tracing every inch under me. I let my fingers trace his chest, swirling paths across his body. "Comfortable?" I whisper to him.

"Very. Please..." Sherlock pleads. "Please..."

Sherlock is shivering, I know I am beginning to see a Sherlock that no one else sees. My tongue strokes across his nipple and he sucks in his breath. My mouth explores every inch of his skin, tasting and touching. I rest my head against his belly as my hands reach for the buttons on his pants. He is shaking beneath me. Suddenly, I become very nervous about the next step. I want to make everything perfect, but I am not sure I can.

"I have never done this Sherlock, I want this to be good. I am a bit scared to fuck this up."

"Right now John, I am very willing to risk it." Sherlock laughs, "Very willing, I didn't have a clue either and it seemed to work out."

I chuckle against him, making him catch his breath again. My fingers find his buttons and I undo them, my mouth never leaving Sherlock's stomach. Goose pimples rise from his skin, he trembles under me.

Sitting up, I lift his hips as I grab his trousers, "Hips up." Sherlock raises his hips and bottom up and in one move I strip him bare of the last of his clothes. I throw the clothes to the side and take in the vision before me.

Sherlock is perfection. His body is long and lean. I know he is bruised and battered but it just makes this moment better. He has been fighting and clawing his way to make it back to me, and here he is, bare and waiting.

All the nerves I had moments ago have gone, I now only have need, want, and hunger. I need to taste his skin, I want to hear his moans, I hunger to please him. I place my lips softly near his knee, lightly stroking his skin.

"You are absolute amazing, wonderful, and brilliant." I purr against him.

My mouth explores his legs, moving from knee to knee, thigh to thigh. My fingers trace patterns as I move up his body.

"Please, John. I need...please" Sherlock pleads.

Smiling, loving the fact the Sherlock is starting to unravel, that I am making the genius beg. I close my mouth over the tip of him, slowly and gently. I let my tongue taste his need.

"Don't stop...more..." Sherlock is close already, I know I have gone slowly, trying to heighten the feeling for him.

Within a minute I feel Sherlock's hands in my hair and his breathing loud and broken. "John..." He lets out a loud moan and I feel his whole body tense, he shatters under me, shaking and shuddering.

His hands leave my hair and cover his face. I lean up and lay completely over him, skin to skin. I pull his hands from his face and see he is rattled. I catch his lips in a kiss.

"You are wonderful, Sherlock. Completely wonderful."

"You can practice that anytime you want. I am more than willing to help" Sherlock smirks, " I do believe you blew my mind..."

We move side by side and curl up against each other, content to let sleep come, knowing we were not going to be alone when we wake.

"John...John...I am back. It's late John, Are you still in bed?"

I hear a voice but I am not awake enough to care. I am warm and comfortable.

"John... Oh dear, I hope he is ok..."

I open my eyes and see Sherlock draped over me. We are both completely naked and I have no clue where the sheet has gone. I hear foot steps on the stairs...

Suddenly it occurs to me just who is coming up the stairs and my heart drops.

"Oh shit. Hold on a sec.."

It was too late, there in the door is Mrs. Hudson, mouth open, hand on her chest. Here I am, nude draped with a dead man I most definitely was intimate with hours ago.

"Sherlock?" escapes her lips, she faints to the floor.


	8. Penance

**A short chapter before we get to a really fun chapter. Thanks for reading!**

"I guess that means no morning sex"

"Sherlock! Get up and throw some close on. I think she has had a heart attack." I am trying to throw pants on and almost fall on my arse. I rush over to Mrs. Hudson and see she is stirring. Sherlock reaches my side and runs a hand across her cheek.

"I wanted to tell you gently. That was not how I wanted you to see me alive." Sherlock says softly. Mrs. Hudson is one of the few people that Sherlock actually cares about. She is more like a mother to him then his own mother.

"Let me see you. You pain in the arse. We lost you. John lost you. You come back just like that and you are in bed with him. You right bastard. What the hell is going on John?" She cries.

I am not sure what to say. I sure hadn't planned telling her Sherlock was alive by showing her all our bits wrapped around each other.

"I am here, you didn't lose me forever," Sherlock laughed, "A little put off at me I see. I don't blame you. Not easy."

Sherlock stands, and I help Mrs. Hudson to her feet. She turns and looks at me. I am still not able to say much. She turns back to Sherlock, looking up at him. The next thing I know she smacks Sherlock clean across the face.

"That is because I know John didn't do it. He protects you with every breath. He almost lost himself with you gone. We almost lost you both. I hope you know he loves you Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson turns and starts to walk down the stairs. "I'll make tea, just this once. Oh and I will bring up some of those scones you like for breakfast."

Sherlock and I just look at each other. "Well Sherlock, that went well. She certainly missed you." I laugh and grab my shirt from the floor and head down the stairs.

The rest of the morning Mrs. Hudson acts like it is completely normal that Sherlock was sitting with us. She fills him in on things he missed while gone, things I know for sure he could really care less about. I give Sherlock credit though, he sits and listens to her, a penance to pay for the stress he has caused.

My phone goes off and I look toward Sherlock, he nods his head, telling me to go ahead and look at the message.

_I know that he just got back but the sooner his paperwork from before is totally processed the better. I need a statement that Moriarty is dead_. - GL

_Let me talk to him. Mrs. Hudson came home this morning and found us naked together so he is paying the piper so to say_-JW

I don't feel embarrassed to tell Greg anything. He has seen me at my worst, not to mention he is more like a brother to both Sherlock and I than just a friend.

_About damn time John. Happy for you two. Let me know_.- GL

I walk back into the kitchen as Mrs. Hudson is saying good bye to Sherlock. She leans down and pats his cheek where she had slapped him earlier. "I am beyond happy you are ok Sherlock. Please take care of him. I know he will do the same for you, he always has, he needs you." With those words she turns and smiles at me," Oh and I will knock from now on." She closes the door behind her.

"We'll see how long that lasts." Sherlock sighs. He looks tired. "What was the message?"

"It was Greg. He wanted to have you finish the damn paper work about the whole Moriarty collapse. He needs statements about his death. I told him I would let him know. You don't need that crap already."

"I don't know. I may like it. I wonder if he told them I am alive, all the Yarders. Imagine Anderson's face if we both walked in the door just like I had never left." He smirks.

"I have to admit, that might be a site. Want me to tell him we are coming and see if any one knows?"

"Sure, text him. I'll go ahead and take the shower first, you can jump in after me." Sherlock stands and stretches. His tee shirt rides up on his belly and a glimpse of pale skin catches my eye. I do not think I will ever get enough of looking at him, and now he is mine. He walks by and catches my lips in a kiss as he passes.

_We will be there in a little while. He wants to know if you told anyone, dramatic Sherlock and all that. He is in the shower, after mine we will b_e _there.-JW_

_No one knows. I figured he would want to freak Anderson out. See you soon. -_GL

I was waiting for Sherlock near the door. He told me he was just about ready. Hearing him coming into the living room, I look up. I feel a bit light headed. "John. Sit down John. Are you ok?

I sit down on the floor. I look up at him. There Sherlock is, in his tailored suit, maybe slightly loose, but still elegant and classy. He has his dark red shirt on, the one that makes his skin look even more pale and perfect than it is really fair for anyone to possess. His hair is perfect and just the right amount of mess. I feel like I have been hit in the chest.

"I never thought I would see it again, you walking into the room, dressed in your suit, ready to go. Just hit me I guess. I am not sure my brain has totally recovered from two years of mourning." I heave. My chest is pumping. My blood pounding in my head.

Instead of pulling me to my feet, Sherlock sits in the front of me. He faces me and pulls me to him, placing me between his legs so that my body is near his chest. He puts his forehead to mine. "I am so sorry John. I wish there was a way to make it make sense or to lesson what you went through. I understand if you get angry or upset. Just please know that I am not gone, I am here, right where I need and want to be." Sherlock kisses me. His lips testifying to his words. "Now lets go see Lestrade and figure out how we can scare the hell out of Anderson."

**Now next time we see what happens to Anderson!**


	9. The Grave

The cab drops Sherlock off. He kisses me good-bye. I hear him laughing as he walks down the block. I know he is dramatic but this idea is crazy. I can't even believe that Mycroft agreed to help him. Sherlock must have threatened him with something.

With a few minutes I pull up to the Yard and walk into Greg's office. He is sitting there on the phone looking annoyed. He motions for the seat across from him.

"I understand but come on. I have to exhume, I know but like this? This is crazy, even by his standards." Greg is sighing into the phone, "Fine, fine, but you owe me."

I wonder if that is Mycroft on the phone and when in the hell would Greg ever tell Mycroft he owed him anything. I was missing something.

"He really has to be crazy, you know that right?"

"I think we have always known it." I smirk.

"Well here goes nothing. I have to admit though, I really can't wait to see his face. Oh and I am bringing Donovan. She is a pain in the ass too."

"Oh that is like a bonus. He is gonna lap that right up. God help us."

"Morning Anderson, Donovan, I know you are wonder why John is here. We had a call this morning. It seems Sherlock's grave was tampered with last night."

"So bloody what. Graves get tampered with all the time." Anderson sneers.

"You do remember who his brother is. Have some respect for John also. Sherlock was cleared Anderson. You know that. We are doing John a favour and you can shut your mouth and just do it. I want you two to meet me at the site and we will see if we can figure out who messed with his grave. After two years it seems strange that his was the only grave disturbed."

Donovan rises and Anderson follows. I can hear Donovan complaining that looking into this was below them. I smile to myself.

When we arrive at the grave site I am actually taken aback by how it looks. If I didn't know what was going on I would be very pissed off. Then I remember I should be pissed

"What the hell. Look at this Greg. Who the hell would do this." I stare at the ground.

The earth has been turned up and the ground actually looks cracked open. It looks like something or someone has climbed out of the ground. The actual head stone is leaning and cracked through in the middle. It actually bothers me a bit, knowing that I spent time here talking to Sherlock. I know he didn't hear me, I know this now but I can't help but get emotional as I look at the spot.

"Holy shit." was all Greg could say.

"Donovan, does it look like someone was digging him up? Who wants to dig the Freak up?" Anderson stands looking over the grave.

I almost lose it. I am so tired of hearing them cut Sherlock down. Greg rests his hand on my arm, reminding me that they are going to get theirs very soon. I look around wondering where Sherlock is, I know he is watching, he would never miss this.

Anderson and Donovan just stand there looking at the ground. Donovan finally says,"It's kind of creepy. It looks like something came up, from down there."

"Are you daft? Nothing came up. Give me a break." Anderson starts to chastise her.

"Even you have to see the ground is pushed up, not dug down." She snaps back.

Both the Yarders just sit and watch the ground, like it was going to tell them the secret any minute.

"Greg, Look." I point to the drag marks in the ground. There is a mud trail, as if someone dragged themselves through the graves. I don't have to fake the look of astonishment. Greg looks equally impressed. Sherlock really has outdone himself.

"Anderson, look someone came this way. It looks like they were hurt and unable to walk." Donovan quivers, "Who would have come through here, I mean did someone hurt themselves trashing the Freak's grave?"

Donovan starts to follow the mud and dirt, Anderson following behind her. "Hold up, look." She points to bits of cloth in the mud. It is silk and red.

That Bloody Bastard ripped his clothes up for this? I am going to kill him. That was one of my favorite shirts.

"This is silk, it's like really expensive. Anderson, this is the kind of stuff Sherlock wore."

"How the hell do you know what Sherlock wore Sally?" Anderson asks.

"He may have been a freak but he was gorgeous Anderson. Even you had to notice that. He dressed like a runway model. How could anyone not notice. This is from his shirt, the dark red one." She looks right at me. My eyes turn from her. I can't even look at her. She is just one of those people that liked to look at Sherlock, but treated him like shit. I actually hate her even more now.

"Some sick person dug the freak up! It's probably him" Anderson exclaims, pointing at me, "He needed his boyfriend back."

Greg grabs me as I lunge for Anderson. I don't have to act upset or pissed off, it is flowing out of me faster than I can contain it.

"You fucking bastard. Shut your mouth. You shut up." I am screaming.

"It's alright John." Greg grabs my face and pulls it so I am looking at him. "It's ok John." I pull back and realize he is reminding me that it really is ok. Sherlock was ok. I hope he freaks Anderson until he has a heart attack.

"Anderson, shut up and do your job before I decide you need another vacation, unpaid." Greg stares right at him.

I watch Anderson and Donovan both follow the drag marks. I take a deep breath and follow. All along the path I see bits and pieces of Sherlock's clothes. There is bits of shirt here and there, even torn trouser.

"I don't like this." Donovan murmurs. I see her stop short of a shed. The drag marks go right into it.

"Give me a break. It's probably some bum Sally. Get a grip on your self." Anderson laughs. He takes a step toward the shed.

"Wait. Think about it, ok. The grave was a mess, something came from below the ground. Someone then dragged something or themselves for that matter into that shed. Plus there are bits and pieces of clothes that look a hell of a lot like the Freaks." Donovan actually looks at me like she realizes what she said in front of me. I almost laugh.

Anderson is looking at Donovan like she has grown a new head. "Are you seriously thinking he dug himself up and rose from the dead? Even he isn't that good."

I watch as Anderson approaches the shed and Donovan follows behind. I can tell she is scared as to what will be in the shed. Greg and I are close behind. I am not missing this for the world.

Anderson pulls the door open slowly. The shed is dark inside and I can't see a thing.

"I see you two are still shagging. How long is the wife gone this time?"

I hear the rich sound of his voice. I can't help but smile.

Out of the dark, ever so slowly, I see him step. He is a mess. Dirt all over, clothes beyond repair. Then he smiles.

A high pitched scream rips through the cemetery. I turn expecting it to have come from Donovan. I see Anderson, he is stark white and screaming. He turns and runs the other way. Donovan faints at our feet.

"You do realize you ruined your clothes. I loved that damn shirt. Come on, lets get you cleaned up and go fill out the paperwork. So dramatic Sherlock, though Mycroft outdid himself on the grave. Very nice touch."

"It is good to have things to blackmail him with" Sherlock says. I notice the look he gives Greg.

"Holy shit, are you kidding me? Greg? Mycroft?" I am shocked. I knew I was missing something, I just did not know it was that.

"What can I say, he isn't the only Holmes brother who woke up naked with his partner this morning." Greg proudly says as he turns and walks away, leaving Donovan laying on the ground finally stirring.

"That was not a visual I need" I shutter. "Let's get you cleaned up. Zombie Sherlock can not show up at the Yard."


	10. Scars

After five hours of paper work and shocked expressions I drag Sherlock home. We were both surprised that Sherlock was patted on the back by most of the Yarders for screwing with Anderson. They were all happy to have a story to tell. I was even more surprised by the people that apologized for not believing him.

As we enter the flat I can see that the day has taken its toll on Sherlock. He looks exhausted. I can see the tension in his movements.

"Come on Sherlock. Up the stairs. Time for a rest. You look like you are going to drop at any second." I steer Sherlock toward my room. "Strip down to your pants and lay down."

"John, that is not very romantic." Sherlock grins down at me.

"Cute. Just do it, you need to relax." I say as I help take his suit jacket off. "I'll be right back."

I decide to go down and make a cuppa for us. I need Sherlock to relax and I am hoping that he may sleep for a little bit.

XXXXXXXXX

As I come back into the room with a tray of tea and biscuits, I see Sherlock laying across the middle of the bed. He is stripped down to his pants and he is laying on his stomach.

I lay the tray on the dresser. Slowly I walk over to the bed and check to see if he is awake. His eyes are closed, but as I approach I see him grin.

"Your bed is quite comfortable, I could get use to it." He opens his eyes and wiggles his eye brows.

I snort, seeing something so not typical for him to do. It is almost alien. It feels good to see him being playful.

I crawl up on the bed and move over to him. I cringe inward looking at the scars and welts on his back and thighs. His poor body has been abused and tormented. I can assume he did some of the torment himself. He has never been very good at taking care of himself.

Softly I trace my finger across a scar. I follow its path until it disappears below his pants, I know it continues under the fabric, until I see it again on his thigh. Scar after scar, and welt after welt, I trace a feather soft touch across his flesh. I feel like I am trying to erase the pain that came from receiving these marks. I want to erase the memory with something more pleasant and gentle.

"I was there for two weeks. I had been able to immerse myself into the web that was Moriarty's lackies. I had taken apart ever other group and I was down to the last one. I was too preoccupied with the fact that I was almost done. I was almost ready to come home. I wasn't as careful." Sherlock begins, not once do I stop touching.

"His name was Sebastian Moran. He was Moriarty's second. He may have been more to him, it is hard to tell with a man like that. Moran had orders to shoot you if I didn't jump. He was last on my list to kill, hardest to find." Sherlock sighs under my fingers. I want him to relax but I know he has to get the story out. He needs to explain.

"He was brilliant. Oh not as good as Jim, but he was smart. I under estimated him. When they figured out who I was I lost it. I was afraid he would try to play out his contract he had with Moriarty. I thought that everything I had worked for the last two years was going to be for nothing. You and I would both end up dead. I felt like I failed."

I feel Sherlock shiver. He is re-living that moment. The moment he thought he had lost me anyway. Slowly I sit up and gently straddle his back, holding most of my weight on my knees. I replace my fingers with my lips. Kissing every mark he has on his back.

"Of course Moran was going to take advantage of the moment. I had destroyed the rest of the web and now he was going to enjoy destroying me. Twice a day I was lashed. First they left the trousers on, but then the skin on my upper back just didn't show the marks any longer. I was just chewed up. After that I was stripped naked and left like that. Little food or water, just enough to keep me alive. After two weeks he grew lax on locking the door to the cell I was in. He thought me much weaker than I was. I had lived on little to no food for a long while and it took more than a few lashings to beat me." Sherlock smirks. I shake my head. Only he could be proud of the control he had over food. He is a classic case of anorexia, but I wasn't going to argue at the moment.

"One night I stood up and walked out of the cell. I turned on the propane tanks as I walked out. I made sure Moran and all his men were up in the bunk room. Within a few minutes I was out the door with clothes and weapons and I blew the fucking place up. I may have under estimated him, but he sure as hell didn't have a clue about who I was and what I would do to protect you. It took me another three weeks to get back to London, to get back to you."

I feel overwhelmed and emotional. For two years, Sherlock fought and survived while I sat here stewing in my own sadness. He has worked so hard to get back to me and I almost destroyed that.

Sherlock could sense my distress. He slowly rolls over, not letting me up. He moves me so I am sitting on his upper thighs, with him laying under me. His hands grab the bottom of my shirt and he lifts it up. I help him remove it.

My head is swimming with thoughts. I wonder what would have become of Sherlock if I had succeeded in taking my life. He would have fought for nothing.

"John, stop." Sherlock clips. He takes his hands and pulls me down to him. I am face to face with him. "I am here. You are here. That is what matters."

"I don't deserve you." I tell him.

"Oh please. I am stubborn, irritating, and a bit crazy. No one can deal with me but you, no one has ever wanted to deal with me John. You are kind, gentle, and unbelievably patient. You and I need to understand that for two years we did what we did to survive. We may not have done a great job, but we are here. That counts John. I am not always good with words John, but for you I would go through it all again."

I just look into his eyes. I usually have plenty of words, whether written or spoken, but now, I am speechless. I figure I'll let my mouth tell Sherlock without using words. I catch his lips in mine and kiss him gently. The kiss is soft and full of promise. Promise of a future, promise of love, a promise to be for each other what we have been missing. It is tender and sensual, unrushed and slow. We both know that right now, we need calmness. The passion and excitement will come later.

Sherlock moves me to his side and curls up around me. I feel his body relax. I pull the sheets up around us and pull him closer. I let the tea get cold and fall asleep with Sherlock. My last thought is that I will do this for the rest of my life.


End file.
